The Hogwarts Four
by Sugar Thief
Summary: After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school…” Have you ever wondered what happened on that fateful day? This is the story of Godric, Rowena, Helga, and Salazar. Ch. 4 up!
1. Bold Gryffindor, From Wild Moor Part 1

Disclaimer: Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin are the creations of J.K. Rowling, not me. I must also thank the wonderful and brilliant Arabella from the bottom of my heart for sharing with us her beautiful "Before the Beginning: A Founder's Fic (With Sugar Quills)," without which I would not have been inspired to write this story.  

A/N: While you read, keep in mind that this takes place in a time when magic is much more accepted as part of everyday life. Although Christianity has taken the place of the old magical pagan beliefs, most of the Muggles of the time still believe in magic and magical creatures. While there is some mistrust and persecution toward magic folk from Muggles, as a general rule (in my version of the founders' world, at least) they are tolerant of one another and mingle much more freely. It is also a time of great internal strife, with sacking and pillaging of villages commonplace and constant power struggles between local kings and lords. Dark wizards there are in plenty, but in keeping with the times, they mostly lack a unifying leader and are scattered across the country. 

**Chapter One: Bold Gryffindor, From Wild Moor**

**Part One**

**~ * ~**

Hoofbeats sounded against the forest floor, their pounding rhythm muffled by the dead leaves that thickly carpeted the ground. Nearby animals scattered as the noise shattered the stillness of the day and set the outermost branches of the trees aquiver; a leaf, touched with brilliant red and veined in gold, shivered, broke free, and gently drifted down toward the ground. 

No sooner had it touched down than it was whipped back up into the air as an elegant animal with a gleaming chestnut coat and slender legs fairly flew past; the leaf tumbled crazily in its slipstream for a moment before settling back to earth; an inquisitive squirrel came by to sniff it and cast a curious look at the retreating backs of the horse and the curly-haired young man who crouched low over its neck.

An onlooker might have been startled by the horse's reckless speed. After all, those innocent drifts of leaves concealed sprawling roots, treacherous rocks, and dangerous hollows in the earth - not to mention the trees whose branches hung out over the trail at just the precise height to sweep a rider clean off his mount. Yet the fleet horse tore through the maze of ancient trees as though chased by a horde of hungry dragons. Surely the rider was mad.

But Godric Gryffindor had never been what one might have called the most cautious of individuals, and such paltry concerns as his own safety were at the back of his mind on this particular day. His hazel eyes crinkled up and he grinned into the crisp autumn wind, breathing in the cool air hungrily, filling his lungs with it as if he couldn't get enough. His cheeks stung and he reveled in the feel of the wind painting his nose red.

As the year waned, the weather had been frustratingly mild, but today had dawned with a chill in the clear air, carrying with it the wild, indefinable scent of autumn, a tantalizing aroma that crept through his window and beckoned to him irresistibly, stirring something in his blood. Godric detested warm weather; it made him feel sleepy and dull, and the coming of the new season had made him miss the moors with an unexpectedly sharp pang. Restlessness had nearly overwhelmed him. Life in the castle was wonderful, but it had been a little too.... tame, of late. 

While a wild ride through the woods was certainly no grand adventure, it did help to take the edge off. He ducked a low branch and urged Lion on even faster.

"Here, give me a bit more," he said, half under his breath. Lion, sensing his master's eagerness, responded willingly, quickening his pace and leaping over a fallen tree with nimble hooves. 

It wasn't just restlessness that plagued Godric, though. Something else gnawed at his mind, something that even his beloved horse and a brilliant blue autumn morning couldn't drive out, exhilarating as they were. He gave himself a mental shake and tried not to dwell on it, but he brooded all the same, glaring at the ground framed by Lion's pricked ears and wishing the stallion could go twice as fast.

The path wound its way steadily upward, and a few moments later, horse and rider burst out of the trees onto an outcropping of bare rock. Twin clouds of vapor issued from Lion's snorting nostrils as Godric leaned backward to bring him up short, for the horse bore neither saddle nor reins. They stood perfectly still, catching their breath as Godric looked out over the forest.

Before him spread a vast, lush carpet of brilliant red, gold, and vibrant orange, and far in the distance, like the gem in a crown, stood Hogwarts in all its splendor. Its stone walls shone in the sunrise and the lake below glinted so brightly he had to blink. He felt a rush of pride. They had accomplished so much, the four of them, that even now he could scarcely believe Hogwarts was really theirs. He smiled reminiscently and somewhat wistfully - as individuals, they could hardly have been more different from one another, but they were a seamless team, balancing one another almost perfectly. "_A symphony_," Salazar had once said, the corners of his clever mouth turned down in mock solemnity. "_With the sole exception of that bloody Gryffindor fellow - he is simply nothing but a thick-headed nuisance. I certainly haven't the faintest idea of why we put up with him_." 

The false sense of peace abruptly evaporated. Godric turned Lion back toward the trail.

A trilling sound interrupted his uneasy thoughts, and he brightened instantly as a familiar vivid figure swooped down toward him. He raised his arm and an elegant bird with scarlet plumage flared his wings and settled on his wrist.

"Hullo, Fawkes," Godric greeted him, comforted by the familiar weight. 

The phoenix cocked his head and looked intently off into the distance. Following his gaze, Godric peered into the forest, wondering what it was that the phoenix had seen. A moment later, he heard the drumming of hoof beats growing steadily nearer.

~ * ~

_ Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum._

_ "Godric!"_

_ The floor was shaking. Drowsily, Godric rolled onto his side and grunted._

_ "Godric, wake up!"_

_ There was urgency in Robyn's whisper. He propped himself up on one elbow, confused in the darkness. "Wha..?"_

_ Something was wrong. The pounding wasn't in his dream, and it was getting louder. A flicker of orange light from outside illuminated the small, frightened face of his twin sister. _

_ "What's that noise?" she whispered._

_ "Dunno. And where's that light coming from?"_

_ Godric pushed the arm of his sleeping older brother off of his stomach and stood, picking his way over to the window opening to look out._

_A line of lights approached the village, bobbing in a terrible rhythm with the pounding. They grew closer even as he watched, horrorstruck._

_"Mother!__ Father!" he cried, and no sooner had the two words left his lips than the screaming began._

_The sleepers in the tiny house reared up. The baby clasped in Mother's arms began bawling. Father leaped to his feet and ran to the window, where Godric stood watching a living nightmare unfold before his eyes. Several of those bobbing points of light - frighteningly close now - suddenly arced into the air and lit on the thatched roof of a nearby house. Below it, tall figures moved in the shadows, and when one passed beneath the spreading blaze, he recognized a man on a horse. Something glinted in his hand in the firelight._

_"Raiders," Father said hoarsely, and the word was lost to all but Godric in the sobs of his younger sisters._

_ "Mary!" he snapped. "Take the children now - go! Johnny and Thomas - come with me."_

_ Godric's two eldest brothers stood up to follow their father, and Godric felt his heart jump painfully in his throat. They were going to go and fight those terrible men. Thomas was only three years older than Godric was._

_ "John, no - " Mother began to protest tearfully, but Father roared, "Now, woman!" picked up two of the youngest children, and threw them bodily toward the door. In the blink of an eye, he and Godric's brothers had gone._

_ Amidst all the wailing and confusion, Mother somehow herded the children out the door. Godric held Robyn's hand tightly, as instructed, staying close to Mother, who had the baby in one arm and little Elizabeth in the other. Osric and Sarah stayed close to her skirts._

_ Half the village was burning. The air filled with the crackling of hungry flames and the cries of the fleeing and the dying. And then a new sound began; there was a roar of male voices and a sudden clash of metal on metal as the men of the village struggled to defend against the invaders with tools meant for piercing the earth, not flesh._

_ "Stay close, loves!" Mother called. Her stringy, greying hair clung to her sweaty neck and her frightened face was careworn, her eyes marked by crow's feet that told of too many hard years. The hands that clasped her two youngest to her breast were rough and swollen. Godric thought there had never been anyone so beautiful._

_Scarcely daring to breathe, the six youngest Gryffindors and their mother scurried toward the outskirts of the village, staying close to the shadows. Robyn tripped on a loose stone and fell heavily, suppressing a cry of pain._

_ "Are you hurt?" Godric whispered._

_ She shook her head mutely and he pulled her to her feet hastily. "Mother, wait!" he called as loudly as he dared, for Mother and the others, unaware of Robyn's fall, had already vanished from sight around the side of a nearby house. The two hurried to catch up, the unimaginable fear of being left behind lending wings to their feet._

_Light suddenly flared on the other side of the house where Mother and the others had disappeared only seconds before. There was a thud of hoof beats... a terrible cry from Mother.... a shriek from the baby... the thatched roof of the house burst into flame._

_"MOTHER!"__ Robyn screamed. She would have run forward, but Godric was still holding her hand tightly in his and he yanked her back. A horrible, sickening numbness descended on his limbs and a fist clenched around his heart with icy fingers. He stood there in disbelief. _

_Mother couldn't really be -_

_He didn't know, but one thing he knew for certain: he did not want to see what lay on the other side of that house. Furious, anguished tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back. If those men had heard Robyn's scream...._

_"Come on," he gasped, dragging a weeping Robyn away from the torchlight, but not soon enough. A man, sitting astride a great brown horse, turned around the corner. They froze, their hearts thudding in unison as they prayed that he would miss them in the dark._

_Beady eyes roved the shadows through holes in a monstrous horned helmet and spotted the children. A grin twisted a cruel mouth. The man kicked the horse with a guttural exclamation and the beast began to gallop toward them._

_Godric__ thrust his sister behind him. The curly-haired ten-year-old boy stood straight, fury blazing from his eyes as the murderer came closer and closer with a crimson blade raised at the ready. He braced himself as the arm began to sweep downward, his mind miraculously clear and cold despite the certain death only inches from his face._

_Sparks flew and there was a great flash of light as the blade seemingly struck an invisible barrier an inch from Godric's nose and rebounded with astonishing force. The man was blasted off the back of his horse and hurled through the air, landing with a sickening crunch about twenty feet away. He did not rise again._

_ Godric felt dizzy. The world swam before him, and he had to sit down, dazedly conscious of Robyn's anxious hand on his arm. When the ground stopped heaving, he registered his sister - in the darkness, a pair of eyes surrounded by a tangled mass of dark curls - gazing at him fearfully._

_ "Godric," she whispered, with something that was a cross between a hiccough and a sob. "Godric, you're.... you're_ magic_."_

_ He shook his head, unable to quite wrap his mind around what had just happened and completely unprepared to think about it just yet. They still had to get away from here._

_ The horse had shied away from the bright light and shower of sparks, and it now stood by the crumpled form of its late rider. Godric gave a low whistle; it pricked an ear and came to investigate._

_ "Quick, get on - I'll boost you up."_

_ Neither of them had ever seen a horse this close before, and, considering the situation, any other young girl might have been too terrified to do as her brother told her, but Robyn wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. She set her mouth in a determined line, pushed off of Godric's cupped hands, and pulled herself up. Godric found a stone that raised him up a few inches and jumped - Robyn pulled on his collar, and he scrambled up behind her. Together, they gave the horse a kick, and, hanging on tightly, they galloped away from their devastated village and into the darkness of the moors._

_Wakefulness and memory came upon Godric gradually as the sunlight pressing on his eyelids brightened. He shivered as the wind whistled over the moors and plucked at his shirt and hair, grateful for Robyn's warm back pressed against his. He kept his eyes firmly closed, unwilling to face the world._

_Thud.__ Thud. Thud._

_There was a huffing noise and a rush of warm air against his cheek, then something velvety nibbling at his chin. With a startled exclamation, he rolled over and pushed himself up to a sitting position. The horse was standing over Robyn and watching him with a mournful air._

_Godric__ hugged his arms against his chest, his thin shoulders hunched against the wind as he squinted toward the smoking remains of the village that had once been his home. The invaders had gone, and not a soul could be seen in the ghostly wreckage. Only a few skeletal buildings were left standing several hundred yards away. _

_There was something he still had to do, and his tired, grief-stricken soul almost quailed at the very thought. But as long as there was the faintest chance that someone was left alive, it had to be done. And as long as there was no getting around it, it was best to go now, before Robyn woke up, he decided. Her face was pale and pinched in sleep, and he felt a pang of worry - she had never been very strong. He had been born first, a hale and hearty infant from the moment he first drew breath. Robyn had been much smaller, and the midwife had found it necessary to breathe life into her tiny lungs. Her early childhood had been marked by one bout of nearly fatal illness after another._

_After several minutes of cajoling, Godric finally persuaded the horse to fold its legs and lie down on the ground, and he gently shifted his sleeping sister so that she nestled against the animal's warm side. She didn't wake, only sighed softly and snuggled closer._

_He took a shaky breath, squared his shoulders, and set off toward the source of the black smoke that obscured the sky._

_He returned an hour later._

_ Robyn still slept; the horse remained in the same position in which he had left it; the sky and the moors were virtually unchanged. Only the sun had moved, creeping almost imperceptibly higher in the cold sky._

_Godric__ Gryffindor was a different person. _

_In that hour, the things he had seen had removed the boyish innocence from his face. His normally laughing hazel eyes were bleak and full of more tears than he would be able to shed in one morning. It would be a long time before the last of them were gone._

_There was no one left. He looked at the endless sky and the breath-taking vastness of the moors and realized, fully and for the first time, that from now on he and his sister were alone in the world, save for a horse. He ached with emptiness. He didn't think he could bear it._

_He and Robyn held each other and cried for what felt like hours, and then, when they had exhausted their tears for a time, shared some scorched crusts of bread he had found in the ruins and laid their plans._

_"We have to go to the City. There will be people there. We can work for food."_

_"The City?"__ Robyn sounded in awe of the very word. "We don't know how to get there."_

_"Father went every year. Johnny went with him last time. They always just followed the Road."_

_The City.__ The Road. Each was the only one of its kind the two children had ever heard of._

_"How long do you think it will take to get there?"_

_"We have the horse, so I s'pose about a week. They were usually away for about three weeks, and Father told me once it took about a week to sell everything. That's one week to get there, one to stay, and one to come back."_

_"But what if those men are on the Road?"_

_Godric__ shuddered at the thought and fresh tears sprang into his eyes. He blinked furiously, fighting them back._

_"Well...." He hesitated, staring into the fire they had built up with a smoldering stick from the village. "I stopped them once, didn't I? However I did it. I can do it again."_

_Robyn regarded him solemnly. "Bess Thatcher always said that magic was just in stories. But it isn't. It's real. That was magic you did."_

_"Bess Thatcher?" Godric said scornfully. "Shite for brains. Mother and Father knew a wizard once. Remember? He used to travel through the village once a year with his family and do magic for a living. You know Bess Thatcher would say anything to anybody who listened."_

_They were quiet for a long moment. It was painful to hear themselves speaking about people they had known all their lives in the past tense._

_"Anyway," Robyn said finally, "it's a good idea, Godric. And maybe you'll meet more magic people like you when we get there! It's a big place, they say. I bet it's at least. ten times the size of our village!"_

_They fell silent, marveling at the notion of a place with so many unfamiliar people. Their village had been their world all their lives. Everybody knew everything about everybody. They cuddled up next to the horse, which had proven to be very well trained and lazy, and darkness came quickly. It wasn't long before Robyn's even breathing put an end to their whispers. _

_Which left Godric awake with only his own thoughts for company.__ They weren't very pleasant companionship. His grief was still fresh and painful, and it was almost matched by his terror of what lay in store for them, as well as his astonishment at discovering his newfound abilities. He concentrated hard, trying to summon the same feeling that had led to his performing magic, but he felt nothing. It was probably something that required practice. It might come in useful in the City, come to think of it. _

_He wished he could tell Mother he was a wizard. He wished Father was there, wonderful Father with his grizzled beard and deep hearty laugh, to tell him where to go when they reached the City. He felt incredibly small and forsaken under the big, starry sky with a great Unknown right before him, and he was angry at his family for leaving him. All the fear and uncertainty and grief swirled together until he didn't know which was which anymore. He had thought he would have no tears left, but his body began to shake with wrenching sobs._

_It was right then, with Godric Gryffindor feeling the worst he had ever felt in his young life, that an eerie, piping bird song met his ears, flooding him with warmth from head to toe. He lifted his head with a shuddering breath and looked up to the sky, where something bright and beautiful was descending toward him. He forgot to breathe as the bird settled delicately right before him and fixed him in the eye with a knowing and comforting gaze._

_He felt a sudden stream of understanding flow into him through the phoenix's wise eyes, and he understood that he would never be completely alone as long as Fawkes was with him. His senses fairly tingled with the wonder of their connection. Reassurance and comfort flowed into him, sympathy, love, and. pity._

_A sudden noise broke the spell and made him turn his head: a wracking, painful noise. _

_Robyn was coughing._

_~ * ~_

Hope you like! Review and maybe I'll be persuaded to post the second part (each chapter will have three parts). I've only written the first chapter so far, so I might be slow in posting after I get those parts up. Reviews give me an incentive - constructive criticisms welcome! Thanks for reading - I'm out.

~Sugar Thief


	2. Bold Gryffindor, From Wild Moor Part 2

A/N: Shout out to Foolish Fish, London Bridge, and Jeklsmom – you all kick ass for reviewing. 

FYI: In this next part, you'll notice a difference in the way Godric speaks. Just so you know, that's intentional – he's had to adapt to living in a vastly different, harsher place. 

Anyway, without further gilding the lily and no more ado:

**Chapter One: Bold Gryffindor, From Wild Moor**

**Part Two**

~  *  ~

Godric had never seen centaurs in daylight before. Helga was close friends with a few of them and he occasionally accompanied her into the Forest to meet with them, but these forays were always at night. He had never quite struck up the same affinity with them that Helga had, but then, that wasn't a surprise, as every living creature warmed to Helga instantly. "If you wanted to inspect a dragon's teeth, it would probably let you climb right in and poke around, just so long as you asked politely," he had once told her, watching enviously as a fully-grown unicorn contentedly allowed her to scratch its back. 

He had a deep respect for the wise creatures, however, and they seemed to sense this, as they were always very courteous with him and even occasionally discussed the movement of the planets with him, although their comments were cryptic and never really told him anything.

There were three of them, and Merlin's beard, they were an impressive sight in the sunlight. Their coats gleamed and their bodies rippled with hard muscle. Their faces were even graver and wiser than they appeared by the paler light of the moon, and he wondered what could have possibly been enough to bring them out to speak with him during the day.

He inclined his head toward the nearest and oldest of them, a tall and formidable centaur with light brown hair and beard whom he recognized as Helga's friend, Banyan. 

"Good morning," he greeted them. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?" He couldn't hide his puzzlement.

Banyan returned the nod courteously. "We come to you on this day, Godric Gryffindor," he began, his measured voice deep and slow, "with a warning."

Godric felt his stomach tighten. "A warning?" he echoed. "What sort of warning?"

Banyan's wise dark eyes seemed to bore into Godric's as though taking the measure of him. Godric looked back without blinking, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Come with us," Banyan said finally. "It is safer in the sanctuary of the trees."

Godric had his doubts about that, but he did as he was told and followed the three centaurs deeper into the Forest and away from his ledge. It was only a few minutes' walk, but by the time they reached the clearing that was apparently their destination, Godric's curiosity could hardly be contained. He kept his questions to himself, though, as Banyan spoke a few words to his companions in a low voice and they trotted to opposite sides of the clearing. Godric had the impression that they were acting as sentinels… but against what? Centaurs were more than a match for most of the forest's inhabitants.

He swung down from Lion's back to let the horse rest for a bit as Banyan, finally satisfied, faced him and began to speak in a hushed voice. 

"Years ago," Banyan said, "we saw in the stars the first indication that a momentous event would take place, something whose consequences would continue to resonate long, long years from now. At first, the signs were faint and difficult to interpret, but we have watched and waited patiently, and every year the signs have grown stronger, more ominous. And now, the heavens have gathered in an indication that the time is nearly nigh."

Godric felt the back of his neck prickling. This one certainly knew how to speak for maximum effect. 

"What exactly this event will be, we cannot tell. And I caution you that we do not even know for certain that it will come to pass. We only know that very soon, the time will come when it _may _come to pass."

Godric said slowly, "And you are telling _me_ this because I…"

"We have seen that you will play a part in this, whether for good or ill. Perhaps it is a choice you will have to make. And it is not you alone. Your three friends at the school will play a part every bit as significant as you will, if not more."

He felt queasy. He did not like the picture he was starting to get from all of this.

"You said the consequences would be far-reaching," he said in what he hoped was a normal voice. "What sort of consequences? Violent? And how distant in the future?"

"It would seem… hundreds of years."

Godric shook his head and winced. "Centuries… yet you haven't an inkling of what this event might be?"

Banyan looked him hard in the eye. "You are no fool, Godric Gryffindor. You know better than we do."

Godric had fought to deny it long enough. It was time he faced it. He sighed wearily. "Salazar."

"Indeed, it does appear to us that your friend will play a central part in the coming crisis."

Godric ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "And you don't know precisely when this will happen, either," he murmured, more to himself than to the centaur. Something odd suddenly occurred to him, and he looked at Banyan questioningly. "I can't help but be curious, and I apologize if my question offends – I thought there was some code of secrecy among your people. Why are you telling me this?"

            Banyan smiled grimly. "Most of my fellow centaurs believe that to meddle in what the stars have shown us is forbidden. But I hold to the belief that nothing is certain, and that we can, to some extent, control our own destiny. The stars have been wrong before, and it is my most fervent wish that they are wrong again this time. I have never before been so alarmed by what I have seen written in the sky, and I am not young, even by the standards of my people. Nor have I ever feared the consequences of a single event so much. Violence, you asked? Yes, and worse."

            Godric was feeling sick. What could he do – or not do – that had the potential for such terrible repercussions?

            Banyan put a hand on his shoulder. "It may be that though you do everything in your power to halt this before it begins, it will not be enough. My knowledge of the future is far from complete. There may well be forces at work here that you cannot influence. The pieces have been in place for a long time."

            Godric didn't know what to say. Banyan had likely risked exile from his herd by telling him this – he realized now that the two younger centaurs were watching for other members of the herd.

            "Thank you for telling me," he said huskily. "I'll do my best."

            Banyan inclined his head toward Godric and beckoned to the two younger centaurs. "Be wise, young Gryffindor," he said, and they departed.

~  *  ~

            _The city of __Manceastre__ awoke sleepily as the sun's rays flooded the narrow streets and winding alleys, touching the roofs of poorly thatched houses with gold. Drunken revelers of the night before stirred outside and yawning inhabitants came to their windows to empty pails of unmentionable things into the street. Pub owners cleaned up after the previous rowdy night while merchants and bakers opened their doors; the enticing smell of freshly baked bread drifted on a light, early summer breeze over the rooftops, in and out of windows, and down into the darkest corner of a hidden alleyway, where a ragged young street urchin slept, curled in a ball with only an ugly old bird for company._

_            The boy's nostrils twitched as the scent roused him from slumber. His stomach growled and he stretched with the languorousness of a cat as one eye opened blearily, a jaw-cracking yawn lengthening his dirty face. He rolled onto his feet, every wiry muscle plain to be seen beneath his sunburned skin. _

_The bird gave a feeble squawk and a feather fell limply from his drooping tail. The boy glanced at it unsympathetically as he splashed his face with water from a nearby puddle and ran a hand through his mop of dark curls._

_            "If you feel so awful, then 'urry up and get it ruddy over with already."_

_            The bird looked at him indignantly and then pointedly turned away._

_            He grinned. "Suit yourself, Fawkes," he said. "I'm off to get me some breakfast."_

_And Godric Gryffindor, hardened street rat, wandered out into the bustling marketplace of the City that had been his home for the last two and a half years._

_Hands shoved in his pockets, Godric sauntered past the throngs of people who crowded the market, casting careless sidelong glances toward the stalls where merchants hawked their wares. The air filled with shouts from the vendors and the heady smells of spices from the apothecaries, and before long, Godric's sharp eye noticed a food stall that was less well attended than the others. The vendor, a large man with a shiny face, was preoccupied with making a sale to a rather pretty young lady. Loaves of broad and meat pies lined the shelves of the stand, ripe for the taking. It was the perfect opportunity._

_The lad sidled up to the booth directly to the right of his target's, seemingly very interested in the squealing young piglets for sale. He focused hard on a particularly large slice of pie in the corner of his eye and sent a blast of magic its way, causing it to hop off the table and zoom unobstrusively into his hand. He concealed it under his shirt and nonchalantly strolled a safe distance away, where he pulled it out and began to munch happily._

_He turned a corner onto a considerably quieter street, where he intended to sit and enjoy the rest of his breakfast. Too focused on his prize to pay very much attention to where he was going, he very nearly tripped over someone._

_"Sorry!" he exclaimed, realizing that he had been about to step on a young girl. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, and a boy of about the same age sat next to her. They looked half-starved. He felt a familiar lurch in his stomach._

_"S'all right," she mumbled, looking up at him with huge dark eyes. They fastened on the meat pie in his hand and a look of desperate longing grew on her face._

_It wasn't much of a choice, really. Godric sighed._

_"'ere, take this," he said, his voice cracking as it had been doing more and more often lately. He handed the three-quarters of a slice of meat pie to the waif, whose eyes became, if possible, even larger. She took it with shaking fingers and broke it quickly in half to share with her brother. They finished it in mere seconds and licked their fingers ravenously._

_ It was such a small morsel, and they were so hungry… He groaned inwardly._

_"Follow me," Godric heard himself saying, and before he could talk himself out of it, he led the two urchins back into the bustling marketplace, mentally cursing himself the whole way._

_With a whispered, "Don't move" to the children, Godric approached a small fruit and vegetable stand. A small burst of magic caused a distraction in the form of rattling pots and pans the next booth over, and a moment later he was handing over a few pilfered apples to the hungry children, who scampered off immediately as though afraid he might regret his generosity if they stayed a moment longer. _

_I could be the best-fed street rat in the whole bloody City, he reflected glumly, if I just had the sense to stop sticking out me neck for every little brat who looks at me the wrong way._

_Still… it wasn't as if most of them had magic to help them survive._

_His stomach rumbled. It was pushing his luck to try nicking something else – you never knew knew when soldiers from the garrison might be out prowling for thieves. There was one bloke in particular who had it in for Godric, a fat fellow who'd had a juicy bit of mutton pinched right from his plump fingers. _

_But he hadn't really eaten in two days. He was careful never to take more than he needed; he was a thief by necessity and not by choice, and he always felt a slight squirm of guilt whenever he walked away with a juicy prize. But he either stole or he starved; it was that simple. He was too old to be a sympathetic beggar – most people reserved any coins or scraps of food for the youngest, most pathetic children on the streets. Quick feet, quick thinking, and magic were the only assets he had. With no training to speak of in magic, he'd learned to crudely manipulate his magic without a wand or incantations, but it lacked a certain… finesse, to say the least._

_An apothecary tucked away between a butcher shop and a cloth stand caught his eye. An aged man with a shock of grey hair was snoring behind the booth out front and a loaf of bread lay right in plain view. He felt a tiny warning bell go off in his mind, but dismissed it as normal misgivings. It was as good a target as any, so with a mental shrug he decided he might as well go for it._

_He glanced around, and seeing nobody interested in the tiny shop, sent a cautious bit of magic to nudge the bread into the air._

_There was a noise like the twang of a bow and Godric stumbled backward, propelled by some unseen force that had just blasted from the stand. He landed flat on his back and all the breath whooshed out of his body. Gasping, he struggled to stand and run away, but he had only made it up to his knees before a pair of strong hands seized his shoulders and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet._

_"Trying to steal my lunch, boy?" a deep voice rumbled._

_It was the wizened old apothecary, and he was clearly much more powerful than he looked. Godric tried to cast a spell on the man's hands, but instead of yelping and letting go, much to Godric's dismay, he instead began to shake the lad until his teeth rattled. A curious crowd began to gather._

_"Geroff me!"__ Godric gasped._

_"Who do you bloody think you are?" the apothecary demanded, punctuating his question with a few sharp slaps. "__Ruddy street__ scum!__ I'll teach you a thing or two about stealing!"_

_And with that, he dragged a struggling Godric to the door of the shop. Godric managed to land a few kicks on his shins, but the old man ignored them and threw him inside, slamming the door behind them. Boxes and bottles of every shape and size lined the shelves of the room, and strange earthy smells filled the dim air. _

_Godric__ put his hand to his lower lip, which was swollen and sticky. He pushed himself up and braced himself for whatever punishment the man had in store for him._

_            "The first thing about stealing you oughter know," he said, glaring down at Godric. "_Don't_ steal from Beck Wotley."_

_            He stepped closer. Godric scrambled to his feet, eyeing the man warily. _

_            "Second," he continued, his voice steely. "Don't get caught by Beck Wotley."_

_            He took another step, and Godric stood his ground, refusing to back up against the wall. Old Beck Wotley glowered down at him._

_            "Third, last, and most important," he growled, and put his hands on Godric's shoulders._

_            Godric flinched. A beating was nothing, but he wouldn't put it past the old man to turn his skin inside out or change him into a squirrell. _

_Instead, Beck Wotley pushed him into a nearby chair and sat down across from him. When he spoke, his voice was amused._

_            "For the love o' Merlin, lad, if you're going to steal using magic, then do it right."_

_            Godric's mouth fell open. Beck snorted with laughter. _

_            "Oh, come, now, lad, it can't've come as that much of a shock. I'd think that the fact that I protect my stall with a ward'd be enough to tell you I was a wizard."_

_            Godric bristled and looked at the man narrowly. "I knew you was a _wizard_," he said, his tone suggesting that Beck had insulted his intelligence. "You was just a bit… upset, is all. Your eyes was startin' to pop out from your 'ead, like. I thought you was going to burn me eyes out."_

_"I only carried on like that for all them bloody people standing there watching," Beck said dismissively. "They wanted a show, I gave em' a show."_

_            "Bloody realistic show, it was," Godric said darkly, touching the corner of his mouth gingerly. "Bit too realistic, if you ask me."_

_            "I didn't. Don't give me that bleedin' 'eart shite," Beck said remorselessly. "Now, I ain't sayin' I never nicked summat that weren't mine, but you did try and steal my lunch, after all. I reckon a few good licks might straighten you out a bit. A life of petty crime don't offer much in the way of career advancement."_

_"Think it's easy to find paid work in this city?" Godric retorted, incensed. "Look at me. What would you say if I came askin' fer a job?"_

_Beck sized up the boy's scrawny frame. "I'd say you look like you couldn't lift a twig," he admitted. "'ow old are you, anyway?"_

_"Fifty. You?"_

_Beck ignored the cheeky question. "You look ten. Got any family?"_

_Godric__ felt an angry flush creep into his cheeks. "No," he said shortly. "And I en't ten, I'm near thirteen."_

_ "Got a name?"_

_"Peck Botley."___

_"That's hilarious. Really. I'm rollin' on the bloody floor." Beck sat back in his chair and surveyed Godric, a look of frank curiosity on his face._

_            "'oo are you, boy?" he said abruptly. "In all my life I en't never seen nowt like that magic you just done."_

_            Godric blinked in surprise. "What d'you mean?" he asked, confused._

_            "Where'd you learn to do that?"_

_            "Do what?"_

_            "That spell you used on the bread. It weren't a proper spell, at least en't nothing like I ever seen. Not a Levitation Charm, nohow. Where'd you learn to do magic?"_

_            "Nowhere."_

_            "You taught yourself?"_

_            "Aye, I s'pose." Godric didn't like all these questions. Anonymity was precious to a street urchin like him. The ability to not be noticed. This old man was too nosy for his own good._

_            "And 'ow exactly did you do that?"_

_            "I dunno." He began to fidget. "If you en't going to burn out me eyes, can I go now?"_

_            "Put your arse back in that chair. I only ask because that little bit o' magic you did was more powerful than anything I ever seen in any fully trained witch or wizard."_

_            Godric stared at Beck. "'orse shite," he said._

_            Beck wheezed with laughter. "Not at all," he said. "Remember that spell you tried to put on me 'ands?"_

_            "It din't work."_

_            "No, but it did destroy in one go the Shield Charm I 'ad up. If you 'ad tried again, it've worked. And I pride myself on Shield Charms. A grown wizard couldn'ta done what you did, lad. With someone to train you up a bit, teach you magic the way it oughter be done, you could really do summat in this world, lad."_

_            Godric studied Beck suspiciously. He seemed sincere, but one of the things that Godric had learned since coming to Manceastre was that no one could be trusted. It had been a bitter pill, but it was a lesson he had learned well. "Right," he said, hopping to his feet. "I'll keep that in mind."_

_            "Will you just sit still and bloody listen for one minute?" Beck said irritably. "I was about to offer you a job, but if you en't int'rested…"_

_            Godric turned back. "A job?" he repeated warily._

_"Aye, a job.__ It's like this, lad. These old eyes en't seein' so well as they used to, and it's gettin' 'arder for me to mix up me remedies. I figure by employin' you, I'll be curin' a menace to society, for one thing, and givin' a lonely kid a place to sleep at night, for another. What do you say? You work for me, I let you kip up in the loft and give you three good meals a day, as well as teach you to use that magic o' yours. You've got a gift, lad, and it'd be a shame to waste it."_

_ It had been so long since anyone had given him a chance to be anything better than he was that Godric didn't know what to think, let alone say. Reform wasn't a concept that the soldiers of Prince Edward grasped too well. For the last two and a half years, he had been beaten, downtrodden, and spat upon. If an urchin was found dead on the street, well, it was only a street rat. He had almost stopped believing in his own worth. _

_But not quite.__ Deep down, he had never really felt that being a thief was his lot in life. He'd always believed something better lay in his future._

_            "What about me bird?" he said finally. "Fawkes. Can 'e stay, too?"_

_            "What sort of bird?"_

_            "'e's a phoenix. And 'e en't really mine, exactly."_

_            Beck raised an eyebrow. "A phoenix! Well, there's a story behind you, lad, and no mistake. Yes, your Fawkes can stay, and welcome."_

_            "Well, in that case…"_

_            "What's your real name, young Mr. Botley?" Beck asked._

_            "Godric Gryffindor," he answered. They shook hands, and a partnership was born. _

~  *  ~

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think – I've been wicked busy lately so I might be a little slow posting in the future, but I'll do my best. Peace out ~

ST


	3. Bold Gryffindor, From Wild Moor Part 3

A/N: So, yeah. I had writer's block on this chapter like whoaa, and I procrastinated for weeks like it was my freaking job. Then, when the words finally started coming, they came in force, so this chapter is kinda long. Sorry for the wait! My reviewers are wicked awesome – I LOVE you guys! Your words of encouragement finally snapped me out of my slump and got me writing. 

Iesa: Wow, thank you! Am I JKR? I wish. 

mrscribble: Don't worry, there will be plenty about the other founders. This is the last bit from Godric's POV.

chocoliciouz: Thanks for the kind words and ::cringe:: sorry again for the wait.

Foolish Fish: Aw, thanks for sticking with me!

This one's rated PG-13 for some of the content. You've been warned… :-O

**Chapter One: Bold Gryffindor, From Wild Moor**

**Part Three**__

_            Working for Beck Wotley was not a walk in the park, Godric discovered. Beck was a demanding teacher and a tough employer. He was not widely known as a wizard; his Muggle customers regarded him as a capable but simple apothecary whose remedies worked wonders every time. Beck reckoned it was better for business this way. Some people tended to distrust magic, even in its most innocuous forms, especially these days, with rumors of increasing attacks of Dark wizards on Muggle settlements outside the city._

_Godric__, Beck discovered, was almost illiterate. His father had given him a few scattered lessons in reading, so he could puzzle out a few words and write his name, but that was about it. After a few weeks of tutoring in reading and writing, Beck mostly relegated to him the boring, time-consuming tasks such as grinding up ingredients and labeling bottles. Godric, who had anticipated brewing up fantastically complicated concoctions, was initially inclined to sulk about this, but Beck insisted he only learn the rudiments of potion-making until he had a better understanding of magic in general. And before he could begin learning magic, he also had to build himself a wand, which he accomplished under Beck's beady-eyed supervision with a bit of oak wood, a phoenix feather supplied by Fawkes, and a great deal of swearing. Beck performed the spell that made it functional, and magic lessons began._

_            Theirs were two remarkably stubborn personalities, with the result that they clashed quite a bit in their early lessons. Godric had been performing untrained magic just long enough to be a little too comfortable with his own methods; his typical approach to solving a problem was to simply throw more power into a spell and see what happened._

_            "NO!" Beck howled, furiously wiping splattered frog guts out of his eyes. "Control, Godric, CONTROL! Bloody HELL!"_

_            The point of the exercise had been to levitate a feather from a table with a Levitation charm, and only a Levitation charm. No "cheating," as Beck called it when Godric fell back on his old, raw methods. When the incantation hadn't worked the first time, Godric had tried again, much more forcefully. Midway through, unfortunately, he had unconsciously reverted to his usual wandless method, with the result that the feather had not only levitated, but the table and its entire contents, complete with about twenty bottles of potions ingredients, had flown into the air and smashed into the ceiling._

_            Godric surveyed the destruction, his eyes wide with startled interest. "Begob," he said, his tone awed and not the least bit contrite. "Good thing it weren't the chamber pot I was levitating, hey?"_

_The shop did a flourishing trade with mostly unwitting Muggles, but it drew a good number of wizards and witches, too. Most of them knew Beck, and at his request, came incognito, although Godric could usually tell the magic folk from the Muggles; a furtive look, a wink, and dragonhide boots were the usual signs. Beck often invited them to stay for tea, and Godric spent many fascinating afternoons listening hungrily to stories of dragons, ghosts, and Dark magic. It was eye-opening for him; since he had first discovered his abilities, he had thought of himself as different, but every day, he was feeling more and more as though he belonged. _

_Weeks turned into months.  Incidents like that of the errant table rapidly became a thing of the past. Godric proved an apt pupil, mastering his lessons at a rate which surprised and impressed Beck, no matter how much he tried to hide it. Godric discovered the joys of debating magical theory, insisting that his unique way of doing magic was an asset rather than a liability, and indeed, it often allowed him to perform feats that mystified Beck. He found ways to combine it with traditional spells and the results were sometimes astonishing. He created a new charm after only three months. _

_Beck was uncle, mentor, teacher, and friend. The old man's eyes were sharp, but at times they shone with wry warmth and good humor. He was hot-tempered and gruff, yet his leathery face could change from irascible to mischievous in the blink of an eye. He had a biting, sardonic sense of humor, and Godric loved egging him on. He was not loose with compliments, but sometimes he let slip a word of praise which made Godric glow inwardly because it was so hard-won. Naturally, it was nearly always followed by a sarcastic comment, but that was just Beck's way. They could, and often did, spend hours happily taking the mickey out of one another._

_ Old Beck didn't mince words when his protégé did something stupid, either, but he kept these rebukes for the classroom, taking care not to attempt to take the place of the father Godric had lost. He never pried into Godric's past, but Godric told him his story one day a few months after being taken in. How raiders had killed his family, leaving him with no one but his twin sister. How they had come to the City together, and how he had knocked on door after door begging for help, Robyn growing steadily sicker as the winter passed. How every door had been closed to him, and how in his desperation he had broken into a doctor's house in search of medication and been thrown in jail for his efforts. How he had pleaded with the soldiers and screamed that they had to let him go, because his sister needed him, and how he had escaped just in time to be at her side as she slipped away along with the winter._

_His life was too full now to dwell very much on the past; no longer having to spend every moment of his life focused on surviving another day, he was beginning to appreciate what Manceastre had to offer. The city really came alive at night, its taverns lit up with festive cheer and delightfully drunken song. He relished the rowdy atmosphere and good-natured ragging among the revelers, and on one memorable night in late autumn, he and a few other young apprentices washed dishes for a time in exchange for a little too much ale. Far from being angry, Beck still took unholy delight in reminding him about that night. He himself couldn't recall very much, but he had the most unpleasant feeling that it had somehow involved a table and dancing a jig._

_During the winter, he discovered the delights of theater and took to hanging out backstage in the traveling shows and open-air theaters with the players and the playwrights. He was an imaginative boy, and the adventurous nature of many of the plays appealed to him. He passed many happy afternoons with his friends, fencing with sticks and fighting pitched battles with the other young ragtag gangs of the city. Come spring, they swam the river and climbed up to the rooftops to laugh and dry off in the sun. Beck never fussed about where Godric went, so long as his work was done, and that suited him fine. He was having the time of his life._

_Consistent meals were doing wonders for his scrawny, undersized frame. He shot up in a truly astonishing growth spurt and, by the end of a year, had outgrown his cot in the loft. If not particularly tall for his age, he was no longer the undersized pinprick he had been, and his easy grin, quick wit, and natural athleticism had earned him no shortage of female admirers. Which was fortunate, as it was not long after his fourteenth birthday that he discovered girls._

_Godric__ had always been fairly indifferent to the female species. They were relatively uninteresting, often annoying people with long hair and strange ways he didn't pretend to understand. He was amazed by how completely wrong he had been. Girls were fascinating! _Brilliant_, really! Why hadn't he ever noticed it before?_

_Soon he was sneaking backstage during shows to steal kisses with Elizabeth Mason, the comely daughter of one of the actors. It wasn't long, however, before Godric realized that __Elizabeth__'s intellectual depth was about on par with gravel and regretfully ended it. Next, he took a young witch named Rosalie Wynderham up on a romantic starlit broomstick ride – or at least, that was how it was supposed to go. He hadn't reckoned on her screaming and flipping the broomstick over just as they flew over the __Mersey__River__. Once he had fished her out, drenched and sobbing, Rosalie shrieked that she never wanted to see or speak to him again and stormed home. Ah, young love._

_            Even aside from his tangled love life, he was busier than ever. His lessons were becoming quite a bit more complex, and he was now doing real work in the apothecary. And then, one night in early fall, they had a visitor whose brief stay made Godric's world a bigger and much more complicated place._

_            It was late. Beck had gone to bed and was snoring in the far corner, but Godric had stayed up to finish a particularly nasty potion that required stirring at very specific intervals to ensure its potency. He stifled a yawn, rubbed his tired eyes, and blinked at the tiny hourglass, which was just about to run out._

_            The last grain of sand filtered through, and Godric, with the practiced air of someone who had performed this exact motion hundreds of times, flipped it over, waited a beat, and stirred three times counterclockwise before settling back to wait for five more minutes to elapse. The only sound in the room was the soft bubbling of the potion and the crackle of the flames._

_            A loud knock on the door made Fawkes screech loudly and flare his wings; Godric started and knocked over the hourglass. He cursed loudly, hurriedly picked it up, and looked toward the corner where Beck had awoken with a grunt._

_"Whassat?"__ Beck mumbled groggily._

_"Dunno," Godric said, rising to head toward the door. "Go back to sleep, I'll get it." It wasn't that unusual to have visitors this late at night; likely it was someone whose baby had the croup and needed a remedy urgently._

_But when the door creaked open, no distraught mother met his eyes; standing there, or rather, slumped heavily against the doorframe, was a short, sturdily built man with an aquiline nose and bushy black eyebrows._

_Godric__ recognized him. He was a wizard, name of Archer, who came to visit Beck every few weeks, and on these occasions, they invariably went into the back room and spoke in hushed voices for hours on end. Godric never knew the reason for these visits; he knew by now a charm that would have let him eavesdrop had he chosen to do so, but he had as much respect for Beck's privacy as the latter had for his, and in any case, he'd never been particularly curious about it. He had quite enough going on in his own life to spare much thought for what Beck got up to when he wasn't teaching._

_Normally, the wizard greeted Godric with an affable little nod, but not today. As the door swung fully open and the light from within illuminated the man's face, Godric felt an unpleasant shock. The entire right side of Archer's face was covered in blood, and his bristly beard was clotted with it. A breeze wafted into the room, and Godric's nose was assaulted by the acrid odor of burned flesh. Archer's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow._

_"Blimey," Godric breathed, then shouted, "Beck! It's Archer – come quick!"_

_Archer's eyes opened and he stared at Godric glassily. _

_"Well, 'ello there, Miss Kensington," he said dreamily. "That's a lovely dress you're wearing."_

_Beck materialized next to Godric, his eyes widening as he took in the miserable state of his friend. "Bloody 'ell," he muttered. "Archer, can you 'ear me?"_

_Archer regarded him solemnly. "Why yes, madam, would you know, I am a bit of a gardener myself."_

_"Delirious," Beck grunted. "Clear the table, lad, I'm going to levitate him in."_

_Godric__ hurriedly moved an assortment of bottles and pieces of parchment to a nearby chair as Beck lowered Archer's prostrate form gently down. He had barely settled when his eyes opened wide very suddenly and he came upright with a jerk, his formerly vacant expression now one of urgency._

_"Beck!" he exclaimed hoarsely, clutching at Beck's arm with feverish fingers._

_ "Archer! What in the name of Merlin 'appened?"_

_"Havin' a meetin' in the old __Marl__ chapel… they found out somehow… must've been twenty of 'em… I think Henry's dead, Beck, and I don't know if Bessie made it out or not."_

_Godric__, nonplussed, stared at Beck, whose leathery face was pale and grim. "Where are the others?" _

_"We scattered. My guess is most of 'em headed for Drover's, but I can't remember much after I was hit. This is bad, Beck, this is very bad. We were so careful… Damn them! They _must_ be organizing! The attacks are just so deliberate…"_

_"Never mind that now," Beck said firmly. "'ow bad are you 'urt?"_

_Archer touched his face gingerly. "Dunno… why, 'ow bad does it look?"_

_"Let's just say you en't a sight for sore eyes just now. What else did they 'it you with?"_

_Archer didn't respond. His eyes had slid out of focus while Beck was talking, and he began to mutter something about daisies._

_"Looks like a botched Confundus," Beck grunted. "Ruddy amateur spell-casting… sniveling, untrained little bastards…"_

_There was a flutter of golden and red at the corner of Godric's vision; Fawkes had flown over to the table. He perched on Archer's chest and tilted his head over the insensible man's burned face. Thick, milky tears began to drip onto the blistering wound. In a moment, nothing but a waxy scar remained._

_            Beck began to rummage through shelves of bottles, still muttering to himself; Godric, staring at his back, wondered just how much he really knew about Beck Wotley._

_            Godric stared at the dark ceiling, his hands behind his head as he lay prone on his cot, waiting. _

_            Beck had healed Archer as best he could, and now the injured man was in a potion-induced sleep in the back room. As soon as he felt it was safe to leave his friend, Beck had grabbed his jacket and cap and dashed out the door with a promise to explain everything later._

_            That was nearly four hours ago now. Godric had been sorely tempted to follow Beck, but he'd reluctantly realized that someone ought to stay with Archer. He scowled at the rafters and strained his ears, listening for Beck's return._

_            A moment later, he heard Beck's brisk footsteps approaching on the cobblestones outside. He was up in a flash, slid down the ladder from the loft, and opened the door just as Beck was reaching for the handle._

_            "Where on earth 'ave you been, young man?" Godric inquired innocently. "Your mother an' I've been worried sick."_

_            "Sod off, you little arse-wipe. I've 'ad a rough night." Beck made as if to walk inside, but Godric stayed where he was, his arms crossed._

_            "Are you going to explain what that was all about?" he asked evenly._

_            "Yes," Beck grunted. "Now get the 'ell out o' me way."_

_            Godric stepped aside, and Beck sank into a chair with a sigh, his long legs outstretched as he propped up his boots on the table._

_            "Well?" Godric prompted, plunking down in the opposite chair._

_            Beck leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "So, aye, lad, seems I forgot to mention that I'm part of a secret society dedicated to resistin' the Dark arts, protectin' the innocent, and generally wipin' the evil scum off the face o' the earth. Bloody awful memory I 'ave, I know. Sorry."_

_            Godric didn't know what to say. Beck's brief, wry words had brought a whole host of painful memories spinning to the front of his mind. _

_"Protectin' the innocent…"_

_As though it had happened yesterday, Godric remembered the overwhelming grief, anger, and helplessness he had felt, and later, the towering fury that had almost overpowered his anguish when Robyn died. The power of his own rage had almost frightened him as he knelt by his sister's lifeless body, swearing to himself that his family's murderers would not go unpunished. Mere survival, however, had to come before revenge, and as time passed, he'd come to accept the reality that vengeance was nothing but a fool's hope. And from the day Beck had taken him in, his life had been too full and happy for him to dwell much on the past. He realized, with a sickening jolt of guilt, that he hadn't thought of his parents or his brothers and sisters for a long time. _

_I am forsworn, he thought bleakly. _

_All those rumors of villages being attacked by Dark wizards… he'd done his best to shut them out, and all the while, Beck had been working to stop it from happening to any more innocent people. Merlin, he'd been selfish._

_There would be no revenge on the marauders who had destroyed his village; he accepted that. An anonymous band of brigands would be impossible to track down three and a half years later. But at the very least, there was something he could do to see that his family had not died in vain._

_He realized that Beck had opened one eye and was watching him a little apprehensively to gauge his reaction._

_            "Aye, I figured as much," Godric said huskily. "Can I join?"_

_            Life as a member of the Wart Knights, as the society playfully called themselves, seemed oddly familiar to Godric. Originally it had been called the White Knights, but before long, the nickname had been deemed more fitting for their ragtag group and stuck – no one could really tell him who had come up with it, but Godric rather suspected it was Beck. In any case, it was almost unsettling how quickly and easily Godric took to watching covertly to see if he was being followed, delivering secret messages and packages to people in disguise, and discussing things on a need-to-know basis._

_            The Warts were an unlikely army. The leaders were not dashing and charismatic, delivering pulse-pounding speeches, but rather shabbily dressed, with a penchant for droll sarcasm. They were few in number; only thirty-two members remained after the fateful night when a group of Dark wizards had broken into their meeting, leaving three dead and causing a terrible blow to morale. Recruitment was a difficult process, as anti-Muggle sentiment was currently spreading like a stain throughout the magic community, and it was hard to accurately gauge loyalties and motives. Even among those with a more enlightened view of non-magic folk, indifference was pervasive, and sympathy was useless when accompanied by apathy. Eager for some new, young blood, they readily accepted Godric into their ranks. A jovial witch by the name of Gwen Prewett immediately dubbed the eager stripling the "Cub."_

_            "Cub?" Godric repeated, not entirely sure how he felt about this new nickname._

_            "Aye," Madam Prewett affirmed, crinkly eyes twinkling from behind a mass of flyaway black hair. "The heart of a lion's beatin' in that chest o' yours, lad, no doubt about that, but you're green as a leaf when it comes to bein' a Wart. In a couple o' months maybe we'll see about elevatin' you to Big Cat."_

_            It seemed that not only had Dark attacks on Muggles, Muggle-borns, and half-bloods increased significantly, but that these attacks were showing an alarming consistency. For years, wizards and Muggles alike had comforted themselves with the reassuring thought that pracitioners of the Dark arts were few and disjointed, but in recent months their coordination and regularity seemed to indicate that they had united, and the Knights feared that a strong, dynamic leader was the cause. So far, though, information had been hard to come by. Godric suspected that a few of the Warts were trying to infiltrate the ranks of Dark witches and wizards, but that wasn't something the leaders were likely to discuss with someone still so wet behind the ears. _

_Essentially, the Warts' mission was to find out when and where the attacks would take place and either warn the intended victims or stave off the attack. So far, though. their success had been limited. For every person they'd evacuated in time or successfully defended, there were several more who would never again see the light of day. _

_            The time and location of meetings changed constantly, and the members alternated attendance. There were always a few who were off scouting and in any case, it was too dangerous for more than a third of the membership to be together at any given time. They couldn't risk putting all their eggs in one basket in case they were discovered again. _

_The meetings consisted mostly of combat training. Though Godric had only a year of real magic training under his belt, he picked it up quickly and found to his delight that with _this_ kind of magic, at least, power was preferable to finesse. The first time he dueled with a fellow Wart, the man was flat on his back on the floor before he knew what had hit him. The unfortunate wizard, a big, strapping fellow with a bristling red beard by the name of Remington, had to put up with a good deal of good-natured ribbing ("Any Cubs make a meal out o' ye lately, mate?") before people began to realize the Cub's success was no fluke, and began inventing excuses to avoid being named his partner. _

_            Most of his work, particularly at first, was tedious and fruitless. As the newest Wart, the responsibilities delegated to him mostly consisted of following people suspected of being involved in the attacks and attempting to glean information from them in an innocuous manner (alcohol was often useful). Very rarely did these leads ever amount to anything. It was easy to get discouraged, but he kept reminding himself that he was doing important work, and there were actually a few times when he was able to learn something of value, which helped add to their tally of success stories. _

_            Finally, after about four months, he saw his first bit of action. He had been tailing a rather slimy-looking bloke for a week in various disguises, and the man's contacts had Godric feeling more and more confident that this one was a genuinely nasty piece of work. He finally saw his chance in a vacant stool in a pub tucked away in the foulest corner of Manceastre._

_            He sidled up to the bar and took the empty stool beside said slimy bloke grunted in greeting, and ordered a pint of ale. Confident in his disguise, he pushed his stringy yellow hair out of his face, rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, his face scratchy with stubble under his hand, and scowled darkly at the table with a mouth full of blackened teeth._

_            "Bloody Muggles," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the man to hear._

_            The greasy wizard pricked up his ears. When Godric did not elaborate, the man muttered, "Amen to that. Bleedin' vermin, they are. For a Sickle I'd wipe 'em all off the face of the earth, I would." Apparently this was one of his favorite topics of conversation. He continued to wax eloquent. "Mudbloods, too. Can't stand 'em. They're unnatural, like."_

_            "Cheers," Godric responded, and they clinked glasses and drank to the poor health of Muggles and half-bloods the world over._

_            An hour and several pints later, Dooley, as the man had introduced himself, or Slimy Git, as Godric still thought of him, was charmingly sloshed. "Y'see," he slurred, squinting at Godric and leaning close to emphasize his point, "me brother thinks we should leave 'em well enough alone. Says we oughter feel sorry for the buggers. I says to 'im, I says, 'No! Wipe th' buggers out!'" His fist smashed down and missed the table, with the result that he very nearly lost his balance and spilled half his tankard down his front. _

_            "Kill the buggers!" Godric averred, nodding fervently. "Wipe 'em all OUT!" He pretended to take a swig of his pint and discreetly spilled some onto the floor. "Y'know, m' friend," he mumbled, clapping his hand on Dooley's shoulder, "less go kill us some Muddles… Mumbles…" His face slackened, his head drooped down onto the bar and he began to drool for effect._

_            Slimy Git bellowed with laughter. "Mumbles!" he gasped, tears leaking from his eyes as he shook with mirth. "What're ye goin' ta do, friend, piss 'em to death?" _

_            "I en't too pissed t' get 'em!" Godric protested, lurching back upright. "Lessee YOU get a Mumble… I mean, Mungle… I mean…"_

_            Dooley was still wheezing with laughter. "Don't 'ave to," he chortled. "T'night the world'll be short a few more Mungles, anyhow." He slapped his knee and roared in glee._

_            Godric went perfectly still. "To- t'night?" he asked, almost forgetting to slur his words. He hiccupped. "Why – wassappenin' t'night?" His heart thudded._

_            "Coupla friends o' mine're goin' ta do that fambly over on the corner o' Market and Church – y'know the one, the witch bitch and her Mudblood brats and Muggle husband." He frowned suddenly. "Acourse, I en't s'posed ta tell ye that – don't tell nobody, hear? Thass top secret, that is."_

_            "Not a soul," Godric vowed, and promptly fell off his stool. "I'm all right," he shouted from the floor._

_            Dooley helped him to his feet, heaving with fresh laughter. "P'raps you oughter be 'eading home, mate."_

_            Godric righted himself and stood there, weaving on his feet. "Mr. Dooley," he announced solemnly, "it 'as been a pleasure." He executed an unsteady about-face and staggered out the door._

_            Once outside, he broke into a run, lifting his disguise as soon as he was safely away and mentally cursing Beck for his insistence that he wasn't ready for Apparition yet. A fluting note of bird song quelled his rising panic a little, and Fawkes settled on his shoulder as he ran._

_"Go to Beck," he panted. "Bring as many of the others as you can, right away, to the intersection of Church and Market." He had no idea when the attack was scheduled to take place, but as Fawkes lifted off, the sky was already blazing the brilliant orange of an autumn sunset, and he was a mile and a half from where he needed to be. There was nothing else for it; he was going to have to steal a horse._

_            He spied one down the next street tied up outside a building that fairly screamed "brothel." It was a bit old and fat, but it would have to do.  He leaped onto its back, burned through the rope in an instant with his wand, and was off. _

_            The route to the intersection of __Market Street__ and __Church Street__ was labyrinthine, and the orange sky had deepened to purple before he reined in his very grumpy horse. His eyes swept the nearby houses along both streets frantically – he did not know precisely where the family lived, and there was no sign of any of the Wart Knights._

_            A muffled scream caused his heart to leap into his throat and his head to snap to the left, toward the two closest buildings on __Church Street__. Which one, which one! A flicker of red light in one of the windows was enough. There was no time to wait for backup; he leaped down from the horse's back and dashed toward the house, trying hard not to think about the wisdom, or lack thereof, of barging in completely alone. _

_            The moment he burst in the door, a bolt of white light nearly took his head off. Without even bothering to form it into a complete spell, he sent a blast of power toward his attacker, a squat witch who flew backward into the wall with enough force that the wooden paneling cracked. She crumpled to the floor without a sound. _

_Sobs and pleading filtered down from the upper floor, and Godric took the stairs three at a time. When he looked in the doorway at the top, the sight made him want to throw up._

_            One man held a weeping woman down on a bed while another spread her legs, administering the ultimate shame before they killed her. Across the room, a third man laughingly forced her struggling husband to helplessly watch. Two little girls clung together in the corner, wailing._

_            "Get AWAY from her, you SON OF A BITCH!"_

_            Before the startled wizards could begin to react, two of them were unconscious on the floor. The third collected himself and managed to get off a rather scattered hex, winging Godric slightly in the shoulder, before he was bleeding outside on the cobblestones, fifteen feet below the window._

_             His breathing loud and harsh in his ears, Godric lowered his wand and rushed over to the distraught witch. _

_            "Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked anxiously._

_            She looked at him, dazed, and nodded tremulously, and a second later her husband had engulfed her in his arms with a cry of "Marian!"_

_            Godric stood there awkwardly as she sobbed into her husband's shoulder. She was saying something, but her words were muffled. A moment later, he could make it out._

_ "I'm so sorry for what I am… I'm so sorry…"_

_            The incident gave Godric a renewed faith in what they were doing, a greater confidence in himself, and his first battle scar. Instead of treating him like a kid brother, the others began speaking to him as they would to an equal. The general consensus was that he was mildly deranged, but in their line of work, insanity when accompanied by a healthy amount of nerve could be a good thing. They were a jolly, courageous lot, and Godric felt honored to be counted as a true comrade. Never again was the Cub left out of the important assignments._

_            They questioned the attackers with Veritaserum, but they had very little information to give, which strengthened the Warts' conviction that their enemies were well-organized and led by someone who know exactly what they were doing._

_            Now that he was more privy to what they were doing, however, he began to look at the Warts more critically and develop his own ideas about how to handle certain situations. Some of their methods frustrated him, and more than once, he came home from a meeting grumbling about something Colin or Ainsley, the unofficial commanders, had said._

_            "We know the _exact _bloody location of two _key_ members o' the evil gits, and what are we goin' to do about it? NOTHING!" he exploded one day to Beck. "It's about ruddy time we started taking the fight to _them, _it is, instead of waitin' around for them to attack _us!_ It's _bollocks_!"_

_            Beck looked up from his cauldron, a sympathetic look on his face for once. "We 'aven't got the resources yet," he said patiently. "That's summat to consider in the future, but right now –"_

_            "Like 'ell we don't 'ave the resources," Godric fumed. "Use their tactics against 'em! Surprise raid at night – four or five people – we can take 'em alive and give 'em Veritaserum, find out 'oo their leader is –"_

_            "Not everyone is as willing to risk what you are, lad," Beck said gently. "They 'ave families, jobs – there's a lot they stand to lose. Can't afford to be reckless, now, can we? If summat 'appened to the Warts, then where'd the people we defend be? Out in the cold, that's where. We're their last line o' defense."_

_            Godric grudgingly conceded that there was some logic in this, but that didn't stop him from feeling a restless pang of frustration every once in a while during meetings, when rhetoric was a little too plentiful and his mind screamed for action._

_            He had much less free time on his hands these days, what with his Knightly responsibilities and his lessons, but somewhere between working the booth in the apothecary, making potions, learning intermediate level magic, attending top secret meetings, and flying to nearby Muggle settlements in the dark of night to thwart attacks by malevolent villains, he managed to find a little time for girls. _

_And so passed another year.___

_"Oi!__ Beck!"_

_Godric__ bounded through the door one bright afternoon, brimming with news. He was the sort of fifteen-year-old boy who never made a quiet entrance._

_"I did it!' he announced triumphantly, dropping his bag and jacket on the floor and crashing into a chair as Fawkes flew up to his usual roost up in the rafters. "Finally beat Bridie at the draw! Oh, it was beautiful, it was – you should've seen the look on 'er face, she couldn't believe it." _

_Beck didn't answer, and Godric looked over his shoulder to see his old teacher asleep on his cot. He heaved an aggravated sigh. "Fine, then, sleep the day away, you old fart." He stood, stretched, and walked toward the back room to get some mixing bowls, throwing a pillow at Beck on the way for good measure._

_Beck didn't stir._

_Godric__ stopped. "Beck?" he said uncertainly. His heart clenching with inexplicable dread, he walked over to shake Beck's shoulder. A moment later, he yanked back his hand as though it had been burned._

_Beck was cold. His eyes were half-open and blank. Fawkes fluttered down and perched on the old man's wrinkled hand, keening softly._

_"No," Godric said dumbly. _

_"No. No. No. NO!" His anguished denial grew louder and louder, finishing as a grief-stricken wail._

_The world began to sway weirdly. He actually felt the blood drain from his face, leaving his skin numb and tingling. He felt as though he'd been struck over the head._

_"You en't – Beck,_ no!_ You can't be dead!" Godric gripped his hair and spun away, feeling himself about to fly apart. He turned back, his eyes stinging. _

_"Not you, too, Beck," he choked, his face screwed up against the sob fighting to get out of him. "Don't you dare leave me, too, you bastard!" He seized Beck's still form by the collar and shook him, crying, "Wake up, you son of a bitch! Wake up, you old codger, I need you!" He sank to his knees by his teacher's bed, his eyes too blurred now to see the lined, leathery, wry, wonderful face he knew so well. "Wake up, you piece of horse shite," he whispered, and laid down his curly head and sobbed, calling his old teacher every name he could think of through the tears._

_The room was serene and undisturbed; the same earthy smell that had greeted him when he first set foot inside more than two years ago still lingered. There had been no malicious attack. An old man had simply slipped away._

_The Wart Knights buried him a little way outside the city on a grassy, windblown stretch of moor. The others, sensing that Godric wanted some time alone, offered a few bracing words, clapped him on the back sympathetically, and left him there to say good-bye._

_The grave was marked by a simple stone with the name "B. Wotley" engraved into its surface. Godric gazed at it, his hands shoved into his pockets and his cap pulled down low over his eyes. His throat was tight as he heard Beck's voice in his mind._

_"Not everyone is as willing to risk what you are, lad. They 'ave families, jobs – there's a lot they stand to lose…"_

_At the time, he had let the matter drop, Godric now realized, because he'd had something to lose, too. Now that something was gone, and there was nothing to hold him back._

_Beck, he silently told the man who had given him a new life, I'm taking the fight to them now. Sleep well._

_Fawkes__ watched from his perch on a nearby tree as Godric took out his wand and Summoned the knapsack he had packed. _

_"Well, Fawkes," Godric said, slinging the bag over one shoulder as the phoenix settled on the other, cocking his scarlet head attentively, "it's just you and me again."_

_And he walked off into the deepening twilight of the moors._

_~  *  ~_

            As the hoofbeats of the centaurs faded into the distance, Godric looked at Fawkes.

            "So," he said wryly. "What now?"

            Fawkes gave a soft, heartening squawk, nipped Godric's ear lightly, and took off for the castle.

            Godric blew out his cheeks. "I'm comin'," he said, picked up the reins, and clicked his tongue to Lion, who began trotting back toward Hogwarts. Godric urged him up to a canter, suddenly impatient to be back. He needed to talk to Rowena.

~  *  ~

A/N: Whew! That ended up being way longer than I'd originally planned. I was thinking at first that I'd have Beck murdered by Dark wizards, but I changed my mind at the last minute because I figured I had heaped enough misery on Godric as it was. Didn't want to go overboard with all the pain and anguish. Besides, I like Beck.  He deserves a more peaceful end.

To everyone who took the time to read this, I am eternally grateful. The review button is just down there!

Stay tuned for the first installment of Chapter Two: Fair Ravenclaw, From Glen

~ST


	4. Fair Ravenclaw, From Glen Part 1

Umm… yeah. I have been unspeakably awful about updating this thing. I've had half this chapter written since the summer, and I kind of lost inspiration to work on it till like 24 hours ago. I credit Mianne for getting me off my lazy rear - her Robin Hood tale got me all excited to write about adventure and romance and such. Hopefully there will be more coming before another year passes.

**Chapter Two: Fair Ravenclaw, From Glen**

**Part One**

The crisp autumn wind whistled gleefully around the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts, skimmed gaily over the lake, and frolicked merrily above the swaying boughs of the Forbidden Forest. It dived down to tug playfully on the hair of the lovely young witch who had just stepped out of the castle's great double doors before whisking away to chase after a flock of birds flying southward.

But Rowena Ravenclaw had never cared much for appearances, and she took no notice of the mess the impish wind was making of her long dark locks. An involuntary smile touched her upturned face as her eyes scanned the sky, squinting in the brilliant sunlight. In the distance, a crimson speck was winging its way back to the castle.

_I might have known_, she reflected wryly.

The grounds were quiet as she crossed to the stables situated at the edge of the Forest. It was too early yet for the students to be up and about, but soon they'd be rousing themselves, blinking sleepily through breakfast and suppressing yawns as they went on their bleary-eyed way to class.

She had nearly reached the stables when Fawkes swooped down to greet her. At the same moment, thundering hooves announced the arrival of a laughing madman on a galloping horse. They burst from the trees, Godric letting out a great whoop as he brought the panting Lion down to a trot.

Rowena wondered idly, for the thousandth time, how it was that Godric had gone so long without breaking his neck. By all rights, he should have been dead several times over, but some lucky star seemed to be looking out for him. Well, cats _were_ said to have nine lives.

Even her customary pragmatism, however, couldn't stop her from smiling at the sight of his antics. "Godric!" she called, waving.

It was a mistake. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, and a moment later his face had broken into a wicked lopsided grin as he turned Lion her way.

"Godric, what…" Rowena broke off, her eyes widening as he came charging at her. She realized what he was about to do a split second before it happened and tried to dodge out of the way, but a moment too late; she shrieked as he leaned down, reached out an arm, scooped her up, and deposited her backwards onto Lion's back in front of him.

"Put me down, you crazy great oaf!" she cried, wriggling in her seat as she struggled to turn away from him and face forward properly. Godric was being most unhelpful; the idiot was laughing so hard he barely seemed aware of where they were going, but then one of her flailing arms hit him in the face and brought him back to his senses.

He grabbed her arms to steady her and brought Lion to a halt. "Easy, easy," he gasped, still shaking with mirth. "Merlin, Rowena, what's got you so excited?"

She shot him one of her patented death glares. Undeterred, he bumped his nose against hers. "Hullo, love," he murmured with an infuriating smile.

She huffed. With his face so close to hers, she could see every freckle that dusted his nose. His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement and his grin nearly overwhelmed her defenses at such close proximity. She strove to keep her face severe. It was difficult.

"Well, sir," she said in the clipped, no-nonsense tones of her best professor voice, crossing her arms. "_What_ do you have to say for yourself?"

"Not too much," he mumbled unrepentantly, kissing her neck. She laughed in spite of herself as his curly, windblown hair tickled her face and pushed him away.

"You forget yourself, Professor Gryffindor," she said demurely. "The children could be watching."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oho! Excuse me, I thought you were _Rowena_ Ravenclaw, not her mother. Terribly sorry, ma'am, my mistake…"

He made as if to get down from the horse. Rowena smacked his arm.

"You like to live dangerously, don't you?" she said, and gave him a kiss the likes of which her mother would no doubt disapprove.

"And what about the poor, innocent children?" he inquired a moment later when they drew apart.

"Oh, I think they'll survive," she said dismissively, playing with the ties of his cloak. "And they're not so innocent," she added darkly. "Always gossiping about their professors' sordid love lives, the nosy little twits. How was your ride?"

Godric's smile faded.

"It was fine," he said briefly.

Rowena frowned. There was tension in his voice, and his expression had grown distant. "Everything all right?" she asked tentatively.

He stared absently at a nearby tree, his brow furrowed. "Godric?" she prompted.

He snapped back to the present. "Aye, fine," he said carelessly. "Let's get this lad" – he clapped a hand against Lion's neck – "back in his stall and head up for some breakfast, shall we?"

Rowena rolled her eyes. Godric, she knew, was an accomplished liar; with his life, he'd had to be. He could concoct brilliant stories at the drop of a hat and tell them with unblinking ease, a talent which had saved his skin more than once. When it came to hiding something from Rowena, however, he was like a student with a feeble excuse for not doing his homework. She could always tell.

"Did something happen on your ride?" she pressed.

He heaved a sigh and shook his head, planting a swift kiss on her forehead before swinging down to earth. It was not a denial, she recognized, but simply a sign that he wasn't quite ready to talk about it. Though she itched to know, she was quiet as he led Lion into his stall, letting him collect his thoughts.

It wasn't until the horse had been rubbed down and fed that Godric finally spoke.

"I had an interesting conversation this morning," he said lightly, hanging the damp towel up to dry.

"With whom?" Rowena asked, intrigued. The inhabitants of the Forest that were capable of speech were a curious and varied assortment of creatures.

"Helga's centaur friend. Banyan."

"In daylight?" she said, taken aback. She'd thought centaurs were only abroad at night.

"I was surprised, too. The rest of the herd was asleep, I gather. He'd sneaked away to come and talk to me." Godric hesitated. "He wanted to warn me about something."

Furrowing her brow, Rowena sat on a bale of hay and pulled him down to sit beside her. "Go on," she said.

Godric stared broodingly at the floor. "He said that some kind of… crisis is coming, a sort of turning point which will influence events centuries from now, if you can imagine that. I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around it myself, but he said this is something that they've seen coming for a while now." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "And… and it's something that the four of us will play a part in." He sighed heavily. "One of us in particular."

He glanced at her. As difficult as it was to take all this in, she knew immediately to whom he was referring. The full weight of the situation suddenly hit her, leaving her cold and frightened.

"Salazar," she said faintly.

She'd have had to have been blind not to see that things between Salazar and Godric had been growing more and more strained lately. The two had been very careful not to acknowledge it to one another, but all four of them knew the rift was there. Helga, naturally, had seen it even before Rowena had. The forced smiles and averted eyes. The sudden absence of their usual bantering. Salazar's unwarranted and frightening tirade when the Muggle-born girl had knocked over her cauldron in class. The look on Godric's face when Salazar had, once again, chosen all pure-bloods for his house at the start of the year.

It had pained her to see such friends drifting apart, but some things in life were certain, and one of those things had always been Salazar's and Godric's opposing convictions. For years, they'd operated under a careful sort of understanding about the issue, and she'd just imagined that they would manage to patch things up and go back to that wary peace. The centaur's warning, however, had suddenly thrown the situation into a much more foreboding light.

Godric's eyes were bleak. He drew her close wordlessly and took her hands in his, playing with her fingers as she leaned her head against his chest. When he spoke, she could feel the vibration as his voice resonated through his shirt.

"Banyan said nothing was certain. That we can… ah, what was it? 'To some extent control our destinies, but there may be forces at work that we can't influence because the pieces have been in place for a long time.'" He gave a short, hollow laugh. "Or something like that. So we try to make the right decision, but we might be doomed to failure no matter what. Comforting, isn't it?"

He blew out a breath and rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Rowena, it's _Salazar._" His voice cracked on the name. "What in Merlin's name am I going to do?"

_ Lord Douglas Ravenclaw and his wife, the Lady Nairne, had always maintained that the difficulties with their daughter began three weeks after her birth. _

_The baby was born with fine golden curls crowning her head, setting off her big blue eyes to perfection. The entire manor was in raptures at the birth of the child, who not only looked like a little cherub with her fair ringlets and button mouth, but was really the sweetest, best-behaved little tot one could ever hope to see. With her flaxen hair as their inspiration, the happy parents named her Rowena, or "fair-haired one."_

_Mere days after her christening, precious little Rowena proceeded to go bald. When her hair started to grow back on her twenty-first day of life, it took after her surname instead: as black as a raven's wing. Her mother insisted Rowena had done it out of contrariness; it was the first sign of a wayward nature that would be a blight to her parents' existence for years to come._

_When she was one, her wet nurse was dismissed and another woman was brought in to fill her place. Rowena immediately took an intense dislike to this intruder and proceeded to make her disapproval known. The moment the woman took the infant in her arms, little Rowena would begin bawling, her face turning a mottled purple under her black hair. It got so that the unfortunate woman had barely to set foot in the same room as the baby to elicit indignant shrieks of protest, and she later swore bitterly that the child regularly waited to be placed in her arms before spitting up her dinner. It wasn't long before Rowena's faithful old nurse was restored to her by her disgruntled parents._

_By the age of two, she had mastered the art of escape from her bassinet, and her technique improved considerably throughout the following year. Even raising the bars didn't help, and no one was able to figure out how she did it, because she always waited until she was alone in the room before making her bid for freedom. She was always turning up in the oddest places, too: the pantry, with pie and a big smile covering her face; the armory, idly playing with a spiked ball; the stables, curled up with a kitten in her arms. It drove her nanny to distraction, and determined to see an end to it, she resolved to stay awake and catch the girl in the act. Her vigil was in vain; Rowena didn't budge for three nights, and the poor sleep-deprived woman gave up._

_These were minor difficulties, and taken by themselves the Lord and Lady Ravenclaw would have overlooked them; however, when it transpired that they were unable to have any more children, the minor misgivings they'd had about their daughter multiplied a hundredfold. She was cursed, or worse! They resolved to keep an extremely close watch on her as she grew. The following years did little to allay their fears._

_It wasn't that Rowena was a particularly bad child – on purpose, at least. Oh, she was more spoiled than most, perhaps, and a little beauty from the start, a fact of which she became keenly aware very early on in life. She used this to her best advantage, as children do, learning the most effective ways of smiling winningly and sobbing heartbreakingly in order to manipulate the adoring adults around her. She had two brothers, Tavish and Euan, who were three and four years older and resented her existence for her first few years of life but accepted her readily as a chum when she grew old enough to become interesting._

_No, it was more that her nature was too inquisitive to be seemly for a young lady of her station. She had a thousand questions about every topic under the sun, and her nanny started hearing the word "Why?" in her sleep. When she was old enough to wander around by herself, she would spend hours prowling through the glen, examining the trees and plants, watching the birds with wide eyes, and collecting insects and birds' eggs to study. Her beetle collection broke loose one day to wreak sensational havoc upon the bed linens and her mother's nerves. Another time, certain she had spied some great beast moving about in the loch, she climbed out on a slippery rock to get a better look, toppled in, and had to be fished out by a passing groundskeeper. When the frightened man had pulled the sobbing girl out of the water and asked her anxiously if she was all right, she explained tearfully that the splash had made the creature disappear._

_ Rowena became obsessed with books before she even learned to read. The written word was a fascinating puzzle to the eager little girl, and she yearned to be able to decipher the strange marks that adults understood so quickly. Her mother frowned on book learning for girls, so she began wheedling lessons out of her brothers' teachers, then sneaking off to the library to curl up with a book and puzzle out the words. Some were too difficult and others too boring, but she improved rapidly and before very long, reading was as natural to her as breathing. It was then, as she began to take in the wonders that books had to offer and travel to extraordinary, undreamed-of places in her mind, that she first learned the word "magic." _

_"Mummy," she asked one day, her mind still spinning with the fanciful tale she had just read, "is magic real?" _

_ Lady Nairne's reaction was peculiar. Her face turned purple and her mouth opened and closed silently, her hand making little fluttering movements over her heart._

_ "Certainly not, Rowena," she managed finally. "Where did you ever hear of such a wicked notion?"_

_ The only book of which her mother approved for her daughter's eyes or ears was the Bible. Unwilling to divulge the truth about her excursions to the library, Rowena mumbled something about overhearing a conversation in the kitchen and walked away, disappointed that there was no such thing as magic. Her mother watched her fearfully as she traipsed off._

_ For, quite unbeknownst to her daughter, the Lady Nairne was a witch, or rather, had once been a witch. As a young woman, she had fallen under the tutelage of a man of God, and he had convinced her to renounce her powers as the work of Satan. She had married a Christian knight and was determined that her child would not succumb to the devil's temptation with which she had been cursed; it was, after all, only by the grace of God that she herself had escaped with her soul. She forbade anyone to utter the word in Rowena's hearing and prayed that the girl would not start displaying any unusual abilities._

_ When Rowena was nine, her mother's worst fears were realized. A maid who had been scolding the mutinous child for keeping a family of mice under her bed suddenly found herself with the snout, whiskers, ears, and beady eyes of a mouse. Frantic squeaking roused the household, a commotion ensued, and Lady Nairne sank into a well-bred faint. _

_ Excorcists, priests, and doctors were brought in by the dozen to drive the evil spirits out of the child. For the next few weeks, Rowena was prayed over, poked, prodded, and forced to swallow so many unpleasant concoctions that she was ready to scream, and did. Quite loudly. The magically amplified shriek drove the offending do-gooders from the manor in fright and caused every wizard within a twenty mile radius to start and look round for a banshee._

_ With it now painfully clear that Rowena's magic was not something that could be driven out of her, Lady Nairne was forced to go with what she saw as her only option: she forbade her daughter to practice magic and started preparing her for life as a nun. _

_ Needless to say, this did not go over well with Rowena. Quite apart from being indignant in the first place that she'd been kept in the dark about magic all her life, now that she not only knew it was real, but she was a _witch,_ she wasn't even allowed to experiment with it! To add insult to injury, her mother planned on packing her away to a nunnery to live with fussy, humorless old biddies for the rest of her life. For someone with a mind as active and curious as Rowena's, this was intolerable, and she had no intention of tolerating it._

_ "It's not fair," she stormed to her second eldest brother, Tavish, who was much more inclined to be sympathetic than the overly serious Euan (Euan was his mother's son to the core). "I don't want to be a nun! Church is boring. Magic is_ interesting_."_

_ "D'you really think magic is wicked?" Tavish asked, his freckled face alight with curiosity. He sounded more intrigued than alarmed by the prospect._

_ "No!" Rowena said defiantly. Then, with an apprehensive look skyward, she amended sulkily, "At least not always. It depends on what you do with it. If I used it to help sick people, how could anyone say it was evil then?"_

_ He nodded eagerly. "And think what else you could do with it! I bet you could make the plants grow when there's a drought, or put out fires. You probably could have saved that girl who drowned in the loch last year!"_

_ "I know!" _

_Both children fell silent, their minds teeming with the endless possibilities magic offered. A thoughtful moment passed. "I could turn Mummy into a bat," Rowena added wistfully._

_Unfortunately, there was a snag in the face of her newfound resolve to learn to use her powers. Both times she had done magic had been unintentional, and purposeful magic required the use of a wand. She had no way of getting hold of a magic wand, even if she'd known where to look, which she didn't; she had no money of her own, and these days, she went nowhere unaccompanied by an adult. Grudgingly, she gave up on the practical part of her idea and began reading every book on magic she could get her hands on. She persuaded the butcher's boy who delivered meat to the manor to smuggle them in from a witch he knew of in town; he wasn't a particularly bright boy, and after a few smiles and kind words from Rowena he was wax in her hands. It was hard to find time to read them, though; her lessons with her mother and the chaplain were becoming more and more time-consuming._

_But as time passed and the girl grew, it became increasingly clear that the blooming beauty was not suited for a life as a nun. Rowena, who had never been allowed any real contact with boys or young men, was as yet unaware of how captivating they found those expressive grey eyes of hers, or how very winsome her smile was. She knew she was pretty – she'd been told so often enough – but she had no real idea of the timelessness of her beauty. As for her changing body, she frankly considered her breasts a nuisance and tried to hide them as best she could. _

_Lord Douglas, who had for fourteen years behaved more or less as though he wasn't aware he had a daughter, suddenly began to take more of an interest in her existence. Rowena was too delighted that her aloof father was finally paying her some attention to notice the calculating gleam in his eye._

_"Hello there, little hen."_

_The term of endearment made Rowena look up curiously as she passed through the entrance hall to see a big man with a booming voice and a wild red beard standing by the door. "Good evening, sir," she replied with a curtsy._

_"You'd be Rowena, then." At her surprised nod, he doffed his hat and bowed. "Lord Ranulf Macrae, miss, here to see your father."_

_"Pleased to meet you," she said automatically, her mind already dismissing him as slightly creepy but mostly uninteresting and moving on._

_He looked at her speculatively. "Well, you're a bit younger than I expected, but I see the stories weren't too far off the mark."_

_"That's nice," Rowena replied vaguely, wandering off to the stairs just as he was about to continue speaking._

_Strange men had begun to turn up in the glen, and they were always particularly polite and attentive to her. She barely noticed, too perplexed was she by the tension she'd noticed lately between her parents to pay much attention to anything else. Normally they were very sweet and devoted to one another, but she had the sense lately that her mother was furious with her father. It bewildered Rowena, because for as long as she could remember he'd always let her have anything she wished and do whatever she wanted – he allowed her an extraordinary amount of liberty compared to most husbands._

_It was a week after the encounter with Lord Macrae when Rowena's old nanny informed her that her parents wished to speak with her in their bedchamber._

_A little apprehensive, but hopeful that she would at least be able to learn the reason for the ill feeling that had been hanging about the manor so oppressively, Rowena pushed open the great wooden door. It swung silently to reveal her parents waiting for her by the fire, Lord Douglas with a smile a little too wide on his face, and Lady Nairne fairly trembling with indignation, her mouth set in a thin line beneath her well-bred nose._

_"Mother?__ Father? You asked to see me?"_

_"Yes, yes, come in, my girl," said her father heartily. "I – we - have wonderful news to impart."_

_Not much encouraged by his tone, she ventured closer, her eyes flicking from his beaming face to her mother's outraged countenance. She smiled cautiously. "Yes? And what might this news be?"_

_Douglas took her hand and drew her closer, touching her face and turning it so her features caught the light. "You are a beautiful, girl, my daughter. And you will soon be a beautiful young woman."_

_What did he mean by this? "Thank you, Father."_

_"So beautiful, in fact…" He winked. "That I feel it would be a disgrace to see you packed away to a nunnery for the rest of your life."_

_Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him in what must have been a comical display of shock, because he let out a great guffaw._

_Of course! This was what had her mother so furious. This all fit, this made sense, this was _wonderful!

_"Father, thank you!" she cried, overcome with sweeping relief and delight, and although she had never been much given to displays of affection toward him, she flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"_

_"I never thought it was a life that would suit you, my dear. And this does not mean that we are changing our stance on… well, your, ah, capabilities."_

_"No, no, I never thought… I understand… and I never wanted to be a nun, Father, thank you so much!"_

_Her mother let out a strangled noise. Her father ignored it._

_"Well, I have eyes, my girl, and I could see that – which is why I have come up with an alternative for your future. Many men are fascinated by that pretty face of yours – you've seen several about the manor these past weeks, no doubt - and several of them have entered into negotiations with me for your hand in marriage."_

_Marriage?_

_The word had never crossed her mind with reference to herself. Whenever she had envisioned her future, it had involved her parents trying to pack her off to a nunnery, then revealing her magical prowess to their great shock and horror, and making a grand exit, sweeping off to begin her life as a beneficent witch. But marriage?_

_She let go of Lord Douglas, her lips still smiling from his earlier news while her brain struggled to process this extraordinary pronouncement. Well, of course marriage would be inevitable if she weren't to enter a convent – it was just such a new idea to her that she had no idea how to feel about it._

_"Marriage?" she repeated. It was all her fazed brain could direct her to say. Then, a moment later, it followed logically – "To whom?" In the instant before he replied, she found time to hope that it wasn't that Lord Macrae – he was too old, and thinking back on it, she hadn't liked how he'd looked at her._

_"I haven't accepted any of them as yet – I'd like to have your impressions of them before I do so. Also, my dear –" he leaned forward, bursting with excitement – "Sir Padraig Buchanon has sent word that he will be coming next week to meet you."_

_"Sir Padraig!" Thunderstruck, she stared at her father. The man was already a legend – young, handsome, wealthy, and __Scotland__'s fiercest warrior in a century. Why on God's green earth would he have any interest in the daughter of a minor, semi-impoverished nobleman like her father?_

_He nodded, his face positively glowing. "He's heard a great deal about you, Rowena. The others weren't pleased when they learned he was coming – understandably, I think, because they can hardly compete with such a man's prospects. That Ranulf Macrae – big fellow, lots of red hair, I think he mentioned meeting you? – was very put out in particular."_

_She heard the details of the man's impending arrival as if in a trance, nodding when expected to do so but lost in her own thoughts. She wasn't sure yet how angry she wanted to be with her father, and she had to think about how to handle these surprising developments before she said anything she would regret. She left a few minutes later, still turning it over in her mind._

_While she didn't much fancy the idea of an arranged marriage, at least her father was allowing her the opportunity to meet her suitor and hear her opinions before closing the deal – a courtesy she knew wouldn't have occurred to many fathers. While she had a realistic idea of how much it would factor into his choice, she conceded it was decent of him to make the gesture of hearing her out. In any case, she had faith that he wouldn't marry her off to an old monster, no matter how rich._

_Depending on the man, a married woman could hold a great deal of power, she mused. Especially if the husband was powerful. And if she were finally allowed to use her magic… _

_Sir Padraig Buchanon. It was scarcely to be believed that such a man could have an interest in her. She had seen him once, several years ago when he rode through the village; the whole glen had turned out to see him, and she had thought him an impressive sight on his tall war horse. _

_She would wait until meeting him, she decided, before choosing a course of action._

_The night before Sir Padraig was scheduled to arrive, Rowena couldn't sleep. She curled up by her open window, a little cold in her light shift but enjoying the night spring breeze. She plaited her dark hair into a long braid as she allowed her mind to roam – mostly considering various plots for getting back at Tavish, who had been teasing her relentlessly all week about her heroic suitor. Euan, ever the sober, gentlemanly brother, had rolled his eyes and told Tavish to grow up._

_There was a huffing noise outside, like that of a horse blowing out its breath. Curious, she craned her neck to look out the window. Partially obscured by the tall bushes that grew outside, she saw three of them, all being held by a tall man whose face she couldn't make out. Her heart jumped with excitement. Was he here?_

_A horrible yell abruptly splintered the silence of the night, making Rowena start and fall from her perch at the window. There was a clash of metal and a dreadful groan, followed by the tread of heavy, booted feet and guttural exclamations emanating from the floor below her. More screams followed, and Rowena picked herself up, her mouth going dry and her heart pounding with foreboding. What was going on?_

_Picking up her skirts, she ran to the door. It flew open just as she put her hand out for the handle and Euan burst inside, his normally reserved face vivid with fear. He was holding his sword, still in its sheath._

_"They've come for you, Rowena!" he hissed, grabbing her arm and dragging her across the room._

_"What?" she gasped. "Who?"_

_"That man Father rejected – Macrae. His men just killed the door guard and Tavish is wounded. You must hide! Quick, get in the wardrobe!"_

_She hesitated, and he threw her bodily inside with the strength born of the self-imposed discipline and training he'd endured for most of his eighteen years of life. He closed the door before she could protest, and when she pushed at it, realized it could only be opened from the outside._

_"Euan – "_

_"Hush! They're coming!"_

_Frozen with fear, she pressed her ear against the heavy door as the footsteps entered the room – two men, from the sound of it._

_"This is her chamber – look everywhere!" She recognized Macrae's voice and her skin crawled._

_The footsteps moved to the left, where her bed was, and then began crossing the room toward the wardrobe. They had almost reached it when she heard a cry from Euan as he leaped out from wherever he'd been hiding, followed by the ring of metal on metal. Her hand flew to her mouth – she tried to perform a spell to open the door, but nothing happened. She felt so helpless she almost vomited. _

_It was over in no more than fifteen seconds. She could hear Euan's labored breathing as he strove to fight off the two older men and Macrae's grunts of effort as they sparred; and then a cry of horrible agony from her brother. She shuddered, tears streaming from her eyes._

_There was a moment of silence, followed by a spasm of wet, convulsive coughing. One of the men took a step closer, and she heard a bone-chilling sound, an indescribable sound, a life-ending sound. There was a thud._

_She retched. _

_An instant later, she saw light stream into the wardrobe through blurred eyes as the door opened, and before the reaching arms of Ranulf Macrae could snatch her she leaped onto him with a wordless scream, scratching at his eyes and biting like a wild animal. The other man dragged her off his master in an instant. She caught a glimpse of Euan's bloodied, lifeless form on the floor before he hoisted her, still struggling, over his shoulder and they escaped out the door._

_ I didn't mean to leave it there – but it was getting a bit long and decided to continue this in the next part. Sorry, I'm evil… I also realize that parts of it may not be exactly historically accurate, and I apologize to any medieval scholars out there, but if you'll pardon my French I don't really give a rat's a. As always, I love to hear from my readers – if you have feedback, or just want to yell at me for being a lazy updater, the review button is right down there._


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